The Coward
by Yuval25
Summary: John is a cowardly son of a bitch, and he knows it. *-WARNINGS-* Underage Wincest, John knows, Suicidal thoughts, Winchester Legendary Repression.


_A/N - I've been wanting to write a 'John knows about Wincest but pretends not to' forever, and now it's here, and it's over 10k which is something I hadn't thought I was capable of. And what a nice surprise that was. Maybe one day I'll hit 50k. Maybe a 100k, dear lord. *breathing deeply* Baby steps, baby steps._

 _Tell me what you think! Your reviews make my days brighter and put a smile on my face every time :)_

 _Enjoy!_

 **The Coward**

John is a cowardly son of a bitch, and he knows it. He knows other things, too. He knows things he never wanted to know. He knows too much. He turns a blind eye, because he is a coward. He looks the other way, because he doesn't know what the alternative is.

He cracks jokes about the hickeys, and ignores the pointed looks exchanged between his boys. He hears the rustling sheets and quiet moans, and avoids listening to closely. He sees them kissing, and tells himself they're just being affectionate.

Other people notice and he kicks their asses. It's none of their business, anyway.

They think they're being subtle. They think he doesn't see the heated glances, the fucked-out look in their eyes. They think he doesn't smell the sex on them, in the room, in the Impala. They think he doesn't hear them groan at night, moaning each other's names.

They think he's stupid. But he's not. He's just a coward.

* * *

It's January, so it's really freaking cold, and it just so happens that it's one of those nights where John hasn't made a good scam in ages and they have to share a room at a dingier-than-usual motel where crickets are cricketing away a merry tune to induce the occupants of the place into a short-tempered, hot-fused grumble.

Sam and Dean bunch together in a queen bed that seems smaller than the one John occupies by himself, even though he knows they are the same size. His boys are far too old to still be sleeping in the same bed, and Sam is at that stage where he is suffering from growing pains and waking John up in the middle of the night with moans of pain that Dean then massages out of his teenage limbs while John pretends not to hear it when the sounds Sam is making turn from groans of pain into something else.

The freezing temperature and the cheap price John paid for the room mean there is a struggle for warmth. John succumbs to six hours of shuddering under the thin covers while Sam and Dean share half-naked body heat a mere three feet away.

The bathroom lightbulb is bare and flickering, and the occasional zap when it catches a moth keeps springing John out of his doze and into uncomfortable consciousness. The even breathing on other side of the room reassure him that at least _someone_ will be fit to drive in the morning, and he quiets the voice in his head muttering about inappropriate behavior in the front seat. He can always ask Dean to turn the volume all the way up until the music is blaring in his ears to drown out whatever is happening between the boys, but the repertoire the old cassette tapes the shoe box underneath the driver's seat in the Impala has to offer has always served to make John more alert as he drove. What to Dean and Sam is probably a lullaby, for John is just another one of the warning signs that he shall not, under any circumstances, fall asleep at the wheel.

John buries his head under the scratchy blankets the moment Sam's distress becomes audible, because he wants to hear as little as possible of what comes next and Sam only ever settles back down if Dean rubs the aches away. The problem is, they never stop at just that, and John is always stuck in that awful place where he nothing he can do would lead to a positive outcome. If he does nothing, Sam's pain lessens but he has to listen to his boys commit themselves to an eternity in Hell. If he does something, he has to watch his youngest twist helplessly, unable to escape the pain, because Dean would never even _touch_ Sam if he thinks John is aware. It's a lose-lose situation. At least the first option doesn't end with John's child suffering long hours of feeling like his bones are breaking.

Dean is awake now. John can tell because Sam has quietened down some, comforted just by the mere knowledge that his big brother is there with him and there is a tone of relief to his whimpers now that he knows that Dean will make the pain go away.

And make the pain go away, Dean does.

John has never asked where Dean has learned to treat the aches and sores growing pains cause. Dean's growth spurt had been milder and thankfully the boy had been spared the agony of rapid gain of height. Or perhaps John just never noticed. Maybe Dean had been responsible for soothing his own growing pains, quietly, where he wouldn't disturb John or Sam.

"Hurts," Sam whines softly, and there is a ruffle of bedsheets and a creak of the old mattress as Dean gains better leverage for the force he uses as he pushes thumbs, palms and knuckles into his brother's skin.

"It'll get better soon," Dean whispers back, "Promise, Sammy."

Sam only groans in reply.

John tries to zone out, forces himself to think of nothing at all, but the slowly shifting mood of his boys doesn't escape his senses and he wants to pull the pillow over his head to block the sounds further. He can't do that, though, because then they'd both know he is awake. He curses himself for not thinking of it earlier.

"Dean," Sam says breathlessly, and John starts counting the seconds, praying for it to be over soon.

"Shh," Dean hushes, and now John hears rhythmic shifting.

" _Dean_."

"Just-"

Another creak of the mattress, and then a dual sigh, followed by a gasp and a muffled moan.

John's eyes are burning with shame, or maybe tears, and he has to struggle to keep his breathing even as sobs try to make their way out of his chest.

John has lost his count, but it seems like forever before Sam exhales Dean's name and Dean's own breathing shudders. The movements stop, and John allows himself a tiny speck of hope that they were done for the night.

God must really hate him, because his ears catch the sound of lips smacking wetly, and somehow that is worse than everything he has just heard. He can pretend all he wants that his sons are acting purely in the name of stress relief, but when it's like that, when there are kisses exchanged in the dark, slow and, by the sounds of it, quite deep…

There is no escaping the knowledge that not only his sons are sleeping together, but they might also quite possibly be in love.

* * *

When Dean had first started showing an interest in girls at the ripe age of thirteen, John had sat him down and explained safe sex, birth control, and the right way to treat a lady. Dean had blushed through the demonstration of how to roll a condom on a cucumber, while John had done his best to trample the pressing urge to run for the hills at the uncomfortableness of the situation.

When Sam had reached the same age, John had forgotten to give him the same talk, but only because Sam had never looked twice at the opposite sex and had regarded boys his age with dismissive disinterest, choosing to focus on his growing rivalry with Dean as an outlet for the adolescent fire burning under his skin.

Sam never had any questions for John, either, not like Dean had. When the penny finally dropped on John like a grand piano in a gas station in Nevada as he watched his two sons try to hide their flushed cheeks and bashful glances after spending five minutes in the public bathroom together, one of his first thoughts after the initial horror had worn off was that Dean had probably already taught Sammy everything he needed to know.

Still, he feels obliged to address what is obviously a hickey – though it looks more like what one would expect of a vampire bite – left high on Sam's fourteen year old neck. They think he's stupid, but not that stupid.

He waits until Sam shuts the door of his and Dean's shared room behind him, and then turns to Dean who is lounging on the ratty couch, watching low-quality re-runs of some show John faintly remembers from his own childhood.

"I never did get around to giving Sam the sex talk like I did with you," John tells him, and Dean's eyes widen before the kid snaps a mask of casual indifference back on and lifts his head in a 'go on' gesture in John's direction without meeting his eyes. John grits his teeth. "Take care of it, will you? Kid never goddamn listens to me these days."

"Sure, dad," Dean promises solemnly.

Mission accomplished, John nods stoically and goes back to staring straight ahead, choosing to focus on the peculiar stain shaped like crocodile on the kitchen wall rather than the fact that if Dean _does_ ever get around to talking with Sam, which is doubtful since it has been two years since John started hearing what is definitely _not_ wrestling matches in the middle of the night, then the knowledge transfer would probably take on more of a hands-on approach and completely disregard the portion about birth-control.

John bites back the frustration as he stands up and grabs his jacket and keys, mentally apologizing to Mary for once again leaving their boys to fend for themselves, as if _that's_ the worst thing he should be apologizing for.

Dean catches his eyes as John opens the front door.

"Don't wait up," John tells him, and Dean hesitates for a moment, before giving him a stiff nod and a 'Yes sir'.

John spares a brief glance at the bedroom door Sam is humming happily behind, and steps into the late-afternoon sunlight, shutting the door behind him and feeling a world's tension lift off his shoulders and settle in the pit of his gut where it joins the rest of the Things John Winchester Represses.

As he pulls the Impala out of the strategically-located parking spot, he can't help but notice the heavy curtains on Sam's and Dean's room being drawn shut by a hand adorned by Mary's silver ring, and his foot jerks on the pedal as his hand handles the gear shift, desperate to get out of there as fast as he can.

* * *

He has a son. He has _another_ son. Oh fuck.

"His name is Adam," she tells him through the phone. She caught him on a bad time, but there are rarely good times when it comes to John so he can't really blame her. He'd met her after getting banged up on a hunt. She'd been a nurse – maybe still is, he'll make sure to ask when the shock passes – at the hospital he'd ended up in. She'd been nice, gentle, innocent and pure. She'd laughed at his out-of-practice attempts at flirting, kept him company through physical therapy, sneaked in samples from the cafeteria for him to try with a mischievous smile that lighted up her whole face.

She'd had blond hair.

It had been a moment of weakness, or perhaps momentary lapse in judgement, but he'd slept with her. Done a lot more than that, actually. Dated her. While hospitalized. What a pathetic man he is.

He'd not fallen for her, hadn't felt even a fraction for her of what he'd felt towards Mary, not a fraction of what he feels towards his boys. But she'd been warm, and nice, and had blond hair.

Her name is Kate.

 _His_ name is Adam.

Oh fuck.

"He's mine?" John asks, tone void of emotion like he's been known to do – by Bobby, by Dean, by Ellen – when he's overwhelmed, when he's cornered and his 'fight or flight or _freeze'_ instinct kicks in.

"It fits the dates, and I haven't been with anyone else," she mutters, and John can hear how tired she is. He wonders why she called. Is the boy… is Adam sick? Hurt? Does she need money? He'd give her whatever she needs. Everything… he has another son, fucking hell.

The boy must be, what, nine years old? Jesus.

"Are you sure?" This is insane.

"Yes. He's yours, John," she clarifies.

It seems impossible. He'd lost all hope of having more children when Mary burned on that ceiling. He'd never thought… never dared to imagine… and now, a _son_.

"Can I meet him?" his mouth blurts out before John has the time to think it over.

There's a static buzz of silence on the other end of the line, and he holds his breath.

"I don't think that-"

"Dad, I don't think we're gonna make it back to Sammy tonight. It's a ten hour drive, and it's already four in the afternoon," Dean says, rather loudly, as he opens the door of the motel room John's gotten for them and steps outside onto the small, creaking patio. The white paint used to cover the wood of the patio has peeled off some, leaving it in a sad place between cared-for and abandoned. John doesn't want to think of how that reflects on his personal life and his relationship with his sons.

"Who's that?" Kate is asking in his ear. He turns to Dean with carefully blank eyes and a stern crease to his forehead.

' _Not now_ ' he mouths, and Dean, ever the good soldier – sometimes John feels bad, sometimes he drinks enough not to feel bad – nods at the order and goes back inside, closing the door after him, trusting John to tell him anything he needs to know.

"John?" Kate repeats in worry.

"It's okay, it was no one," he lies through his teeth. It should probably worry him how natural it feels to lie. To her, to Dean, even to himself.

What would Dean think if he found out he has another brother? Would he look out for him, keep him safe? Would he teach him how to protect himself? Would he be angry, offended, hurt by John's obvious betrayal of what Dean believes to be a more-than-just-life commitment to Mary? Would Dean treat him like he treats Sam?

The last thought hits John with the force of a truck and he feels out of breath and disoriented for a moment.

There are a lot of good things in the way Dean treats Sam. He protects him, takes care of him, puts him first, always. He is Sam's everything – mother, father, brother. Lover.

John can't ever let Adam meet his sons. He can't ever do that to this pure, normal kid. Lots of kids have only one parent, a single mom is nothing out of the ordinary. A hunter for a father and two incestuous half-brothers who are also quite deadly, however? Not so normal. Not so common. Not something John would drop on any kid if he could avoid it.

No, Sam and Dean can't know Adam exists. The way they are with each other… _what if they-_

John takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly.

"John?" Kate asks again, and he realizes he hasn't been listening to her for a while.

"I'm here," John says, because the only way he can be for her is over the phone. For now, at least.

"I'm not expecting you to pay child support or anything. I didn't tell you about Adam, and that was my decision. You're not obligated to do anything. I just wanted you to know, so… if somewhere, down the road, he has questions, or wants to meet you…"

"I would love to meet him," John tells her honestly, aching with how true that is.

"One day, maybe."

"What's he like?"

Kate sighs, and the sound is so full of affection John nearly crumbles.

"He's brilliant. He's bright and really curious, and got an attitude I can only assume he gets from you," she laughs, and John joins in because while Dean gets his stubbornness and general goodness from Mary, Sam's got attitude in spares and that's entirely on John. "He's got a mouth on him, that boy. He's fierce. And he's such a good kid. I swear, John, every time I look at him… There's just so much good in him, so much kindness."

"He sounds amazing." John wants to meet him. Wants to see if he's anything like Sam and Dean. Wants to know how much of him is Kate and how much is John. Wants to make sure he grows up safe and oblivious to the things that go bump in the night. He wants him to have a normal childhood, unaffected by monsters. He wants to be his father, the way he hadn't been for Sam and Dean. He wants a second chance.

He wants his kids to meet.

He never, _ever_ wants his kids to meet.

Another son.

 _Oh fuck._

* * *

John stands in the pouring rain, indecision making his steps falter as his ears catch the sound of quick thuds drifting from the room he got for him and the boys for ten dollars. The grocery bag in his hand rustles plastically as he stops in the middle of the parking lot, ears straining to catch context for the noise, half-afraid of what he would find.

A guttural moan breaks through the night and John flinches away like he's been punched. His fingers tighten around the plastic handles of the bag and he forces his feet to move, to take him back to the Impala.

Throwing the door of the car open, he tumbles into the seat, dripping wet, and pulls it shut with enough force to rattle the car, cutting off the sound of Sam's voice on Dean's name with a punch of the button on the Impala's media player. The tape is still inside, so the music blares on immediately, and John cranks it up almost all the way until he can't hear his sons anymore. He hopes the sound of his music doesn't carry like the sound of the bed hitting against the wall does, but he doubts his sons would be able to hear it even if it does, engrossed in their… activities as they are.

John sighs and waits.

* * *

Dean hits on girls. All the time.

They are in a diner not far from the highway they've been driving in shifts for the last ten hours, trying to get as far away as they can from the mess they'd had to leave in the warehouse as possible before they stop to get some much-needed sleep. None of them has slept more than three hours in the last two days and their exhaustion shows as John orders three black coffees and gets glared at by his youngest, who is apparently trying to start eating healthy food, as if burgers and coffee are what's going to kill a hunter who's logged more hours on the road than the average trucker.

"Anything else?" the high-school-aged waitress chirps and flashes her best grin, white teeth arranged in perfect rows that can't be natural and dirty blond hair a touch darker than Dean's tied in a loose ponytail behind her neck. "Something to eat?"

John surveys the menu. The special looks good; a three-level cheese burger with two toppings on each burger and a mountain of home fries and onion rings, accompanied by an artery-blocking garlic sauce that has a star next to it to mark it as the chef's recommendation.

John looks at his boys. Dean's got his eyes closed and his arm on the back of the seat behind Sam's shoulders, and Sam is leaning forward with his elbows on the table, face in his palms and looking like he would fall asleep any second now.

"Maybe later," John tells the waitress, whose nametag marks as 'Penny'.

"Sure. Want me to leave you the menus?" she asks kindly.

John manages a small smile at her efforts, calculating how much cash he's got in his wallet for her tip. Not much, if he remembers correctly. Maybe Sam and Dean can pitch in for the check.

"That'd be great, thanks."

She nods and shuffles off to the kitchen to place their order. The diner is almost empty at this time of the night, and John wonders what a high-school student is doing working so later. It's almost 23:30, if the clock ticking on the wall behind the bar is to be believed. Maybe she needs the money. John feels worse when he thinks that she's going to be sorely disappointed when she sees the measly tip they're going to leave.

It's less than five minutes of watching Sam dozing on and off and Dean blinking with exaggerated clenching of his eyelids later that Penny the Waitress comes back with their drinks.

John raises an eyebrow and she blushes, and maybe that's a bit not good of him to be virtually flirting with someone who could be his daughter, but it feels good to make someone smile when these days all he's getting from the people around him are frowns and scowls and glares. It's not like anything's going to _happen_.

"It's a bit slow today," she explains sheepishly.

"Hey, no complaints here," John tells her, and she quirks another smile and takes off to hand menus to a young couple that just came in.

He gulps down the coffee, wincing when the scalding beverage burns his tongue. He can see Sam glaring at his drink, hugging it with his hands to get some warmth into his system as Dean takes an experimental sip and then starts drinking in earnest.

When John's got mere dregs of brown slush at the bottom of his glass and Dean seems to be close to finishing his, John signs Penny over and asks for a refill for both of them. She looks worriedly at Sam's full glass of coffee, biting her lip in a habit John can recognize from Dean's own childhood.

"Is your coffee okay, sir?" she asks him politely.

Sam raises his eyes to her and doesn't bother with a smile. "It's fine," he grumbles, but doesn't drink from it.

John rolls his eyes. "Do you have anything with caffeine that isn't coke or tea?"

Sam's eyes snap to John's face and there's suspicion there that makes John want to roll his eyes again. Jesus Christ, he just asked the girl if they have something to drink, not if she has a gun he can borrow.

"Um, hot chocolate?" she offers hesitantly.

"Does your hot chocolate have caffeine in it?" John asks in surprise.

"Um, no. But I can put a shot of espresso in it. Or two," she adds as an afterthought, critical eyes on Sam's hunched shoulders and dropping eyelids.

"Add some whipped cream on top and we're golden," John informs her with a grin.

She grins back and her eyes travel to Dean, who is leaning back in his seat with his eyes closed and his mouth open, snoozing, apparently.

John can see the blush spread all over her cheeks and ears, down her neck and up the back of it. He knows Dean is an eye-catcher, with Mary's facial features and that goddamn sass girls apparently love, the leather jacket and the air of danger about him that people presume is arrogance but is really _actual_ _danger_ because what hunter isn't dangerous?

The girl bites her lip again and takes off, the hand that isn't supporting the black tray carrying their empty glasses and other people's dirty dishes fanning her flushed cheeks.

John is thoroughly amused. Or, at least, he is until Dean opens his eyes at Sam's pointed elbow-nudging and intentional head-tipping and tiredly roams his eyes on the retreating waitress's backside, humming half-heartedly. Sam clears his throat and Dean groans.

"Dude, I'm beat, leave me alone," Dean complains, cuffing the back of Sam's head and making the younger boy fall forward and nearly into his undrunk coffee.

"I'm just saying, dude, she's your type, isn't she?" Sam insists, glaring at his brother.

John sighs and brings a hand up to rub over his face. He hates it when they get like this. When they feel like they ought to overcompensate or pretend to take an interest in anyone that isn't each other for his sake. But it's not like he can tell them that.

Dean's eyes turn back to the waitress as she walks out of the kitchen, walking backwards so that her back is pushing the door open and carrying a huge, unbelievably genuine smile and two trays of food and drinks, overlapping plates forming towers. John is torn between wanting the tower to topple and wanting her to make it to both tables safely.

"There you go," she says warmly, placing one tray on the table and handing them their drinks, full almost to sloshing – which they didn't, this girl must have been a waitress for a long time – and one topped with swirling whipped cream and cocoa powder. "I put in three shots of espresso and asked them to put extra chocolate cubes at the bottom in case it's too coffee-y."

Dean's eyes widen as they take in the bucket – there is no other word for the huge container of the beverage – of chocolate coffee.

"Can I get one of those, too?" Dean asks her, eyes still big and green and John has seen the way those eyes affect women, has seen the way those eyes affect _Sam_ , had experienced being affected by those eyes on a different face well over a decade ago. Dean is playing dirty.

The girl flushes again, stammering a 'sure, yes, of course' before hurrying over to the next table with the empty tray tucked beneath the food-laden tray, face on fire and shy smile that contrasts fully with the confident smile she's given them earlier.

John sighs again, feeling weary.

"Are you boys hungry?" he asks, picking up the menu again and deciding it couldn't get much better than the special.

Dean seems to contemplate it. "What are you getting?" he turns to Sam, asking.

Sam shrugs. "Don't really feel like eating," he mumbles into his bucket, taking a sip and, screw milk mustache, the kid's got whipped cream all over his nose. Probably up his nose, too. "Shit," Sam hisses pitifully, and Dean hands him a napkin to dab his face with.

"You gotta eat something. Wanna share a double Pasta la Vista?" Dean offers, pointing at the spot in the menu where the dish must be named. Sam's eyes dart to it for half a second, before he shakes his head. "Well, what about this? Portobello chicken sandwich in a baguette with lettuce and, look, Sam, it comes with a side of green salad!"

"You're the worst," Sam says, and the grin he tries to hide shines in his eyes as he looks at his brother.

"We're getting the sweet potato fries as well."

"I hate you."

"Be grateful, bitch."

"Make me, jerk."

John stares at them, eyes moving back and forth between the matching grins and challenging eyes, and anyone else would think they're brotherly teasing each other, but John knows. John goddamn knows. No fifteen year old should say 'Make me' with so much suggestiveness in his tone. Or bat his eyes like that. Seriously, who do they think they're fooling?

"How is everything?" Penny the Waitress appears out of thin air, placing a chocolate-coffee in front of Dean with one swift, practiced movement that doesn't slosh the drink in the slightest, catching three trained hunters by surprise at her sudden appearance. It's a bit alarming to think that none of them heard her make her approach, but John chalks it up to exhaustion. "Did the chocolate turn out alright?"

"Yes, thank you," Sam says, nodding fervently. If he's trying to hide the way his elbow stabs into Dean's ribs again, he's doing a really bad job at it.

"That's great!" she gushes, million dollar grin in place as she turns to Dean. "Can I offer you _anything_ else?"

The way she says it makes it impossible to tell if she means just food or something entirely different, but John must be old and rusty and apparently a generation too early because both Sam and Dean perk at her words and Sam shoves another bony elbow into Dean's side when John's eldest makes a stammering attempt at flirting.

"The, uh, the Portobello chicken thing," he points, showing her the menu and she nods. "Two of that. And one sweet potato fries." Dean jumps, and from the carefully innocent look in Sam's eyes John presumes he must have kicked Dean under the table. "Darlin'," Dean adds, all drawled southern accent and charm turned up a few notches.

"I'll have the special, with bacon and fried egg as toppings," John interjects, because there's only so long he can suffer in silence as his sons make fools of themselves in the name of camouflage.

"Anything to drink? More… coffee?" she asks, taking in the re-emptied glasses in front of John and Dean, Sam's coffee also gone thanks to the joined effort of Dean's tiredness and Sam's disinterest in the drink, and Sam's half-full bucket of… choco-latte… -spresso. Dean's started importing spoonfuls of whipped cream to his mouth, slowly digging his way into the small hill.

"Please," John answers. A few more couldn't hurt, not if they're going to be driving.

She nods, flashing another smile – are normal people always this happy and optimistic? – and turns back to Dean, shuffling back and forth on her feet until she shoots back to the kitchen with their order.

Dean's eyes track her backside as she power-walks back and forth between the kitchen and the bar, collecting dirty dishes and cleaning empty tables, filling the salt and pepper shakers and pushing chairs back where they belong.

John can see the underlining of a frown beneath Dean's appreciative gaze. His son couldn't be less attracted to that girl, John knows, but his eldest still tries to make it look like he is. Like he is a normal, teenage boy with teenage urges and heterosexual tendencies. Well, he's got the teenage part down, at least.

When they leave, John tucks a twenty Dean hands him under the bill they paid with Barak O'Brian's credit card, and the expression on Penny's face when she sees it makes John think he can last a few more hours driving than he's planned to. The piece of paper with her number and name on it that she hands Dean with a bashful smile while tucking a stray lock of blond hair behind her ear and Dean's forced enthusiasm when he assures her he'll call her make John think he should just let Dean drive and save them the possibility of him running into a tree.

John hates that his boys have to pretend. He hates that they are even _doing_ _it_ , and therefore have to pretend.

John wishes they'd pretend better. He wishes he'd believe them.

* * *

He lets himself into the room with caution, years of experience and what borders on trauma making his ears alert before his eyes even adjust to the darkness. His bed is empty, of course it is. Dean never sleeps there unless John is around to supervise it, and John suspects that the sheets have not been disturbed on that bed since he left for the hunt three days ago.

Dean's eyes snap open not two seconds later, and John feels pride well up in his chest. He had raised him to be a light sleeper in case something ever comes for them during the night.

Sam is wrapped around Dean, the mop of his hair hiding his face from John as he emits a quiet sniffling sound and buries it further in Dean's chest. Dean spares John a smile before closing his eyes once more, trusting John to keep them safe now that he's there.

John drops the duffle as quietly as he can on the floor beside his bed and fixes the salt line he'd disturbed. He locks the door and paddles to the bathroom, where he washes his face, scrubbing the grime from his temples where he hadn't managed to wipe it off with the wet wipes from the Impala and brushes his teeth until the taste of dirt is gone and he can no longer smell the stench of human flesh burning.

He unlaces his boots and, after taking them off, tries to scrape the blood of their soles with toilet paper. It works, mostly, but he still feels uncomfortable with the amount of genetic evidence his mere boots can provide. Combined with the human ash left in a not-quite-covered grave in the next-town-over's graveyard and the freshness of the body – the man had died mere hours before John had rolled into town following a string of strange deaths and hauntings in the gloomy town, _hours_ – the pair of boots are enough to send him to prison for a lifetime.

Padding over to the bed and leaving his boots in the corner closest to him where he can pull them on in an instant's notice, he falls onto the springy mattress and falls asleep between one breath and the next.

* * *

"They your sons?" asks a stranger at a bar as John collects his money from body-builder types who suck at spotting a scam and put up a brave front up until the moment one of them catches the glint of John's gun in the poor light.

John lifts his head to regard the stranger, who appears to be a man no older than thirty, a kid, really. He has a ragged appearance and a natural tidiness to his facial hair John immediately envies. The only look John has ever been able to pull off is clean-shaven, probably a leftover convenience from his days as a Marine more than an actual taste in fashion.

The stranger is almost as tall as John, wears torn-at-the-knees jeans and a dark hoodie that is either black or a very dark blue colour. He smiles with the genuine interest of a curious by-the-way, but his posture and the rise of his hoodie where Dean usually keeps his own gun mark him as possibly dangerous and John takes a moment to answer.

He does so with a curt nod and a warning in his eyes as he stares the man down. The man doesn't so much as flinch, but rather mirrors his nod as if John has just proven what the man thought to be correct. John narrows his eyes at the blatant interest in his sons, shuffling a small increment to the right to block the man's immediate view of the boys as they laugh and bicker by the pool table.

"Thought they might be," the man continues, either oblivious to John's rising hackles or blatantly disregarding them. Both not very smart roads to take, in John's mind.

"And you are?" John asks, because he might as well get a name while he's at it, and it's easier to gather info on a man when you know in which section of the Office of Human Resources' easy-to-break-into a-z library to look.

"A bit too close for comfort, ain't they?" the stranger continues, ignoring John's question as he keeps his eyes fixed on a spot behind John's shoulder.

John takes a threatening step forward, and is rewarded with the sight of the man's instinctive flinch back as John lets everything he feels about his sons' 'closeness' fuel the rage he knows is taking over his expression.

"Back off," John half-growls, and the boys' laughter ceases. They probably realize that something about this situation is a bit off, because John can hear Dean order Sam to stay back even as John's eldest steps forward to stand at John's side, glaring daggers at the stranger who now looks torn between his curiosity and the common sense that is telling him he should run.

Dean tries to catch John's eye, but when John does nothing but bare his teeth at the stranger, Dean straightens up as if given an order and barks: "You got a fuckin' problem?"

The man smirks, obviously trying to hide his wavering bravado. And then, because clearly, he has a death wish, he turns to face Dean and sneers: "Filth like you shouldn't b-"

John lays a punch on his jaw before he can finish, watching with satisfaction as the man falls to the floor with a pained shout and a crack that can't be just chairs scraping across the floor as people get up to watch the fight.

Astonishingly, and in a very ill-advised manner, the man chuckles and sits up, blood trickling down a red, uneven-looking jawline and fingers prodding gently at the reddening skin as it swells. "You're in on it too? My, my, what an ince-"

The pointy edge of John's boot meets the man's temple and, though this time there is no crack, the man's head does snap satisfyingly to the side sharply enough that John is certain he would be suffering from a very stiff neck for a very long time… as soon as he wakes up, that is. The man has actually passed out from the force of the blow, and Dean, always the responsible one, tugs at John's arm.

"Dad, let's go. Let's just leave. They're callin' the cops," he urges anxiously, eyes flickering to the worried-looking bartender who is balancing a phone between his shoulder and ear, speaking into it with one hand covering his mouth and another reaching under the bar.

John doesn't wait long enough to find out what the bartender had been reaching for. He grabs Dean by the waist and whirls him around, catching Sam's wrist as he directs wide-eyed flailing towards John's seething self and pulls them out the door, keeping them in front of him and stepping out after them.

Dean is still shooting him worried, slightly disbelieving looks from the passenger seat as they drive in silence towards the motel, while Sam fidgets uncomfortably in the rearview mirror, looking anywhere but John but sharing poorly-concealed 'dad has finally gone mental' eye-contact with Dean every few seconds.

John doesn't care. He doesn't care if his sons think he's crazy. He doesn't care if the man in the bar is just passed out or if he's dead.

That fucker should have minded his own fucking business.

* * *

When John steps into Bobby's kitchen, the man is seated at the table, gulping down the remnant of his whiskey as his free hand curls around the bottle. He pours himself another, a slightly-too-full glass, and one for John as well as John takes a seat beside him and lets his body relax as he sighs.

He takes the glass from Bobby, frowning at the look in the man's eyes. That look means trouble, it means caution and it means John is about to hear something he doesn't want to hear.

"Drink, you'll need it," Bobby waves his hand in the air before picking his glass back up and taking another long drink, the liquid catching in his mustache.

John looks at Bobby for a few long seconds, before taking his glass and sipping a few times.

"Dean looks sunburnt," John comments when Bobby's glass is empty once more and John has more or less finished drinking his down, the burn in his throat like the comforting presence of a friend.

"Dean's an idiot," Bobby says simply, as if that sums it up. And it probably does – John's eldest has always had a knack for marching around shirtless and giving his brother all the sunscreen.

"What's this about, Bobby? You clearly have something to say. Just spit it out," John prompts, impatient and weary.

Bobby shoots him a stern look but obeys. "I don't like this," he starts, huffing a breath past his hairy upper lip and looking around as if for assistance. "A few days ago, I walked past Sam and Dean in the yard. They didn't see me, but I saw… You are not going to like this, John," Bobby hesitates.

"Bobby," John says darkly, a warning in his voice. He doesn't know what he's warning Bobby about – shutting up or finishing the sentence.

"Kissin', John. They were kissin'. Looked more like they were tryin'a _eat_ each other, but that's teenagers for ya," Bobby reveals bluntly, adjusting his hat and clearing his throat as he looked at John warily.

John doesn't know how to do this. He has known about Sam and Dean for years now, and while he is fairly used to strangers dropping snarky remarks about the obvious way his boys gravitate towards each other, he has never had to deal with a fellow hunter, someone he knows and respects and is expected to interact with in the future, noticing how inappropriately close his kids are.

He opens and closes his mouth several times, before he reaches for the bottle of whiskey and pours himself half of what Bobby had handed him earlier, downing it in one huge, throat-burning swallow and breathing hard afterwards.

"Just kissing?" he asks to make sure.

"Well, no," Bobby confesses, looking guilty and still wary and expectant like he's expecting John to burst any second. "But I didn't think it'd be wise to-"

"What did you _see_ , Bobby?" John presses, mortified. John has seen a damn lot of nakedness between his boys, has heard and smelled the evidence of things much worse than kissing, but for Bobby to know… for Bobby to _see_ …

"Pretty sure they were gettin' off, if the sounds were anythin' to go by. Like a freakin' porno," Bobby adds, and the tension around his eyes is obvious. Bobby is just as uncomfortable having this talk as John, but that doesn't make John feel any better.

John nods, because he's heard the way Sam gets when he and Dean do stuff literally behind John's turned back, heard the way Dean's mouth goes off and John doesn't even _know_ where Dean has _learned_ that stuff, that filth that makes John shudder in disgust and shame and fear because if they are as careless with their thing towards the rest of the world as they are towards John, it's only a matter of time before the rest of the world finds out.

John comes to a decision with so much ease it's startling.

"You shut your mouth about it, Bobby. You shut your mouth, and you don't share that shit with anyone," John growls deep in his chest, low enough not to alert the laughing boys outside but loud enough to carry the threat behind the words.

It's probably five seconds before Bobby's eyes widen in shock and understanding. "You knew."

"Of course I fucking knew."

"Why didn't ya stop it?" Bobby asks, and there's anger in his voice, accusation John has been directing towards himself every day since that day at the gas station when had found out that his sons were sleeping together.

"Why didn't I stop two teenagers who've never had a stable home or hope of maintaining a functioning relationship from latching onto the closest stable thing they had and not letting go?" John shoots back, hating how the force his in tone dwindles until it's barely audible. He knows it's his fault, but hearing it out loud, _saying_ it out loud, really fucking hurts.

"You're a fucking coward, John Winchester," Bobby says just as quietly, but it echoes in John's mind for hours after that, even after they leave, the chant of _cowardcowardcoward_ in his head almost loud enough to make him miss the suggestive smirk Dean throws in Sam's direction as they haul their duffle bags into the room John got for them, separate from his own by a thin wall because farther rooms are taken.

 _Cowardcowardcoward_ is what John hears when the mattress starts to creak in Sam's and Dean's room.

 _Cowardcowardcoward_

* * *

This time, there is no walking back to the Impala and waiting it out. There is no pretending to be asleep, pretending he didn't see, pretending he doesn't know. This time, Sam and Dean are naked, there isn't a speck of darkness as sunlight filtrates through the smudgy window of the room, and John stands at the doorway, watching in horror – because this is the first time he's actually seen them at it – as they break apart, hard-cocked and sweaty, in equal horror, and stumble for their clothes.

It is glaringly obvious what they have been doing, even if John didn't actually see – has kept his eyes carefully averted from – the interlocked lower halves of their bodies. There is a half-squeezed tube of lubricant on the nightstand and a chain of condoms peeking out of Dean's wallet, which is lying open on the floor beside the bed. There is a sock on the lamp – _how did it get there?_ John can't stop his mind from wondering – and Sam has to bend down and half-crawl under the bed to retrieve his boxer shorts – same cheap type as Dean's – as Dean throws his jeans on, not bothering with underwear.

John's hand is still on the round handle of the door, and when he lets it go there is a mark on his hand that might bruise in the shape of the handle from how hard he'd been gripping it. The duffle slung over his shoulder is suddenly too heavy and John lets it tumble to the floor, weapons clinking. Dean winces at the sound.

He can't deal with this right now. Not after the hunt, not after the monster tearing kids apart, not after the screams of the girl he hadn't managed to save, seven years old and cheeks wet with tears as she had begged, but he'd been too far away to catch up and his shots, when he'd finally gotten around to firing them, had been wide.

He levels tired eyes at his boys, who are now standing straight-backed and fearful and mostly nude, staring at him with the kind of emotion no father wants his children to feel, much less directed at _him_.

Sam looks like John has just murdered someone, eyes round as saucers and breath coming out in quick, panicked pants that will make him pass out of he keeps at it for much longer, and Dean is looking at John like _Dean_ has just murdered someone, with guilt and pain and acceptance and fear and something akin to defiance that would normally piss John off but now gives an unexplainable surge of hope and love.

Walking on numb legs to the bathroom, John doesn't remark on the fact that Sam's got his boxers on backwards or that the knife positioned perilously close to the bedside table's edge is starting to wobble now that Sam has upset its balance by jumping out of bed like he had.

Once he's got a door between him and the disaster that is his family situation, he allows himself to sit down on the closed toilet lid and bury his face in his hands, resting elbows on scraped knees and muttering apologies to Mary and God and Sam and Dean for being such a screw up of a father.

All the strength seems to have drained out of him. He forces his feet to respond as he stands up with the help of the toilet tank and turns the water on in the tiny shower cubicle, separated from the rest of the bathroom by a flimsy, flower-patterned shower curtain that is missing most of its loops and therefore covers nothing at all. He undresses and kicks off his boots, toeing his drenched socks off and finally stepping into the scalding hot spray, turning his face up into the assault of searing droplets to maybe scorch the image of his sons fucking out of his eyes.

He gurgles a few mouthfuls of mold-tasting water, convinced that no bacteria can survive the temperature, and reaches across the short distance to grab a toothbrush from the cup by the sink, not knowing whose it is, but hoping Sam and Dean hadn't used it in their sexual endeavors. God knows what those boys have been up to.

He scrubs a bar of soap all over his body until he feels raw. He knows that he is clean, possibly cleaner than he has ever been thanks to the scalding temperature of the water and how small the bar of soap has gotten, but he can't help but scrub again, and again, and again, until his skin is red and aching and he smells nothing but cheap soap. He knows that he is trying to clean the last ten minutes off, and that no amount of scrubbing is going to wash the filth he has just seen away. He feels nausea climbing up his stomach and chest and throat, and he nearly slips on the wet tiles as he runs to the toilet and slams the seat up, heaving everything he'd eaten in the last twenty-four hours – which is, admittedly, not much – into the cold white bowl.

Tears gather at the corners of his eyes and start falling into the mess of vomit below. Sobs tear at his vocal cords and choke him as he empties his stomach and cries at the same time.

He knows Sam and Dean have been sleeping together for a while. He has heard it on more than one occasion, actually. But hearing it and seeing it are different things, and to see _so much_ of it, to see the _extent_ of it, is overwhelming.

He also knows that everything that has happened has happened as a direct result of the way he'd raised them. He'd told to trust no one but each other, to depend on no one but each other, to take care of each other in ways that no brothers should. How many times has he told Dean? _Take care of your brother_. All of those times he had left them in a motel by themselves with nothing to focus on but each other, all of those nights stuck in the same bed while John took the second bed, all of those near-death experiences… _Take care of your brother_. There is really no one to blame but John.

When he hops back into the shower, the water has grown colder. The relief of the cool water against his burnt skin is something he doesn't feel like he deserves, so he washes his mouth and does another cursory scrub-down before shutting the water and grabbing one of the towels folded near the sink.

He dries off, and then wraps the towel around his waist because he had forgotten to bring fresh clothes and there is absolutely no way he is putting the dirty, blood-soaked clothes he has worn back on.

He sits on the closed lid of the toilet for a while, not wanting to go back out and face reality, face his boys and the fact that they know that he knows now and there's nothing he can do about it.

Maybe they're already gone. Maybe they've packed their bags and gotten in the Impala and driven off, leaving John with nothing. No car, no weapons, no sons. Maybe it would be better if they _do_ take off without a word, without 'sorry' or 'never again' or 'fuck you sir' or 'please dad', if he comes back to an empty room with the evidence of sin hanging like a bad smell in the air, with the mess of sheets and half a tube of lube and the shame and the grief and the _cowardcowardcoward_ pulsing in his veins loud enough and overwhelming enough to make him sick.

It would be easier, John decides. They have no reason to stay, after all. They have each other, and even if it's not the way he'd intended, even if it's sick and wrong and John's spent more time with his gun against his temple than he's had it aimed at monsters these past few years, he knows there's enough love and loyalty and fierce protectiveness there for them to be able to keep each other alive, at the very least.

They'd be okay.

John can't say the same for himself. He can't see a way out of this mess, a way that doesn't include him and his boys turning in different directions, but Sam's already pretty much done with high school and a smart kid like him, he could get into college, easy. Hiding it would be difficult for them, especially if they keep going the way they're going and damn the consequences or anyone wise – or _unwise_ – enough to piece it all together and figure out what John has always tried to forget, but…

A thought occurs to John, then. A thought from long ago, years before this whole thing with Sam and Dean and the inappropriate sinful wrongness had entered their lives – well, _that_ inappropriate sinful wrongness, at least, since John might be a son of a bitch, but even he knows that the bible doesn't encourage people to go lying and stealing and killing – and maybe a few nerve-wrecking, heart-breaking, not-all-that-sober (John can admit his mistakes, his shortcomings and weak spots and failures, to _himself_ just _fine_ , it's other people he has a hard time admitting them to) years after seeing Mary gutted like a fish and screaming soundlessly on the ceiling of Sam's nursery as flames erupted around her and took the love of his life away from him. A thought that, now that John thinks about it, has been a long time coming.

A few weeks after Dean's ninth birthday, John had left him and Sammy in a wilderness-themed motel with the least-kickback pistol he could find and instructions not to open the door to anyone. He'd then gone about saving a family from a bloody fate of being torn into pieces by a malevolent spirit who's had her husband ripped to shreds by a mother bear after unwittingly killing one of her cubs. Turns out the man he'd saved had been completely unrelated to the grateful family, and while they had sobbed their thanks and shoved a home-baked cinnamon and hazelnut pie into his hands – which he'd later shared with Dean and Sam as a _'sorry I got back a week later than I said I would'_ – the man only took out a business cards with shaky hands and put it in John's palm, curling John's fingers over the card with his hand and promised to pay him back a favor in case he ever needed to either disappear or appear as someone else.

John had held back the judgement in his eyes since that would have been hypocritical of him, and accepted the card with a nod. He hasn't thrown it away, for some reason. John wonders if the number on the card is still valid and if the man would keep true to his promise.

Because if he does, then Dean could… Dean _could_. Dean could change his name, his history – _his criminal history_ , thinks John with a dim feeling of amusement – his education and his status as Sam's brother.

He loves his boys. Loves them more than anything, would do anything for them, but he can't keep staring them in the eye now that they know he knows. It might break them apart, or at least create unnecessary tension between them, and that's the last thing John wants.

But if he loses them… He can't bear the thought of never seeing his kids again. Losing Mary had been hard enough, but losing his sons… that would be unbearable. He'd break, snap, probably end up dead on a hunt because he wouldn't pay attention. And they won't even know what'd happened to him.

Phone calls and Christmas cards, is that all that's left for them? What if he visits them one day and there is only one bedroom with one bed? What if their neighbors expect them to kiss and they do so in front of John? How would they explain John's presence? Would they even _want_ John to drop by?

It hurts. It really fucking hurts. He can't do it.

 _Cowardcowardcoward_

He can't never see his kids again. He has to…

 _Cowardcowardcoward_

He has to make them stay. If they go now, they'll never come back. If they go now, he doubts he'll ever see them again. He _has_ to make them stay.

 _Cowardcowardcoward_

No _._

 _Cowarcowardcoward_

John stands up, head spinning, and stumbles to the door. He has to see with his own eyes that his boys are still there, that they haven't left him, that he's still got them, even if he's not got anything else anymore. He's so afraid…

 _Cowardcowardcoward_

The door creaks open and his breath hitches as he catches sight of both boys, each sitting on the edge of a different bed, downcast eyes that snap up to meet his in startled terror. He's panting, he realizes. And wearing nothing but a towel.

He pads over to his duffle, wrenches the zipper sideways and pulls out a pair of underwear and sweatpants as well as a nightshirt almost violently. He pulls on the underwear under the towel, and then flings the towel across the room into a corner and finishes dressing with quick, efficient, almost stoic movements. He avoids the fearful stares, the way neither of his boys has taken a full, deep breath ever since he got out of the bathroom, the way they are carefully distanced from each other and sitting on their hands as if they wouldn't be able to resist touching each other otherwise.

 _Cowardcowardcoward_

He walks over to the bed they ( _probably_ ) hadn't been fucking on, flings the covers to the side and waits patiently until Dean gets the clue and stands up jerkily.

John bites his lip.

 _Cowardcowardcoward_

"Go to sleep," he says, knowing he is nothing but a coward but half paralyzed with the fear of them leaving that he has to add, "We'll talk in the morning."

Dean looks unsure, but Sam shuffles further up the bed – which, John realizes, has been made with clean sheets from the tiny linen closet – and disappears under the covers, bringing the blanket all the way over his head so that not even a hair on his head remains visible.

John catches Dean's eyes, and the look in them makes his own eyes sting with tears. Dean looks like he's five years old again and lost in the sea of paramedics and the spinning red siren lights of firetrucks, holding his baby brother wrapped in a blanket in his arms as he looks for his Dad, small face covered in soot and tears and eyes wide in shock and fear and desperation.

"It's okay," John says to Dean, because there's nothing else he can say, nothing he can think of that would make Dean stay, that would make him not _take his brother outside as fast as he can and not look back NOW DEAN_ _ **GO!**_

Dean's open look of helplessness remains firmly in place, and a few tears escape from the sides of his eyes as he takes in a shuddering breath and crawls under the covers with Sam, back to John and facing the younger Winchester who lets out a few uneven breaths and shuffles closer to Dean until the shape of his head under the covers is pressed against Dean's covered chest.

John sighs and lies down, looking at the ceiling for answers. _What am I supposed to do now, Mary?_

* * *

They don't talk about it in the morning and when, two months later, Sam announces he's going to Stanford on full scholarship and there's nothing John can do to stop him, John only nods, a traitorous feeling of relief washing over him, almost but not quite strong enough to mask the pain and longing and sadness of his youngest leaving him, and gives him eight hundred dollars in cash, a picture of his mother – the last picture he's got; the second one had been given to Dean – and a note with four phone numbers scrawled in his handwriting on it, a name beside each number and the name of the country to go with it, all trained hunters who John trusts with his life, and across the back of it every number of every phone John has in his possession.

He claps Dean on the shoulder when the kid says he's going with Sam, hopefully not letting the agony show through his eyes as Dean looks into them apologetically but firmly. He hands him another four hundred and the last of his coins, five good credit cards and one that's about to run out, the weapons duffel, and the keys to the Impala.

He pulls the envelope he's gotten just a few days ago in the mail – sent to Jim, collected by John under the pretense of grabbing a book about holy wine from the pastor – from the identity-specialist in Chicago, the one with the ability to create a man out of nothing, to establish a lifetime, a background, in a little under a month. He gives it to Dean, who opens it carefully. His green eyes widen in shock as he read the paperwork, the pictures, the dates and stories and history that isn't his, the parents, the friends, the high school he never went to, the documents proving that he is Dean Cooper, age 22, mechanic in trade.

"Take care of your brother, Dean," John says as he turns around to put his palms on the kitchen counter, eyes swimming with tears he doesn't let them see. "I mean it. You keep him safe, you hear me?"

"Yes, sir," Dean answers, sounding a bit choked up.

"You keep yourself safe, too. And you…" John has to pause, emotion closing up his throat and tears finally overflowing to make neat tracks on his stubbly cheeks. "You call, you call me when you get there and… and you call, okay?"

"We'll call," Dean promises.

John can hear Sam sniffling behind him, but he doesn't turn around.

 _Cowardcowardcoward_

"Dad-"

"And you be goddamn careful, with that thing you've got. You be goddamn _fucking_ careful, and you don't let anybody know you're brothers. Am I clear?" It's physically painful to say those words, but John needs to say them, has to, because they need saying and it's important, so important.

There is no answer for nearly half a minute, so John repeats himself.

"Am. I. Clear."

"Yes, sir," two voices reply simultaneously.

John nods to himself.

"Go," he tells them.

The only answer he gets is the sound of footsteps and bags being picked up, followed by the sound of the door clicking shut, and after that, silence.

He is completely alone, now. There's no one to protect, no one to live for. Only vengeance, for Mary and the boys and the life they'd had. For the childhood he hadn't been able to give them, and the horrors they've seen, and the solace they'd found in each other. There is only John's mind echoing the word _coward_ back at him over and over again until he thinks his head might explode, and the tears dripping down his chin onto the stained porcelain of the counter, and the way he can't take a breath without the stab of pain in his gut like a knife, in his heart, in his head. There is only him, now. Him and the whiskey and the monsters, both real and in his head, both supernatural and completely human, beasts and thoughts, things he'd never thought he'd feel again, had hoped he'd never have to.

He picks up his gun from the kitchen table, and slams in the magazine. The thunderous click when thumbs the safety off leaves his heart beating furiously in his chest, fast and hard and painful.

His bottom lip trembles as he brings the gun up, and up, and up. His left hand clutches onto the edge of the counter, his white-knuckled grip not providing any sense of relief or distraction. His right hand holds the gun, quivering, small jerks of his fingers as he moves his pointer finger to rest on the trigger.

He closes his eyes, clenches his teeth through a sob, and presses the end of the barrel to his temple.

In the distance, the Impala revs up and drives away.


End file.
